


It Should've Been Me

by StagnationRebel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Depression, Feels, Implied Mystrade, Jealous Mycroft, John is kidnapped, Johncroft, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidnapping, Love, Love Confession, M/M, Mycroft To The Rescue, No Mary, Or Is It?, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock too, Unrequited Love, being revised, what have I done?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:08:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2270895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StagnationRebel/pseuds/StagnationRebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Proud and excited, Sherlock missed it. He missed the whole thing, even though he knew all of Mycroft’s tells, studied them for years. Sherlock was so adamant, so persistent, so… blind, and Mycroft was… scared. He had no idea how to tell Sherlock, even when to tell Sherlock. The microscopic section of Mycroft that was jealous didn’t even want to tell Sherlock, wanted to watch the surprise on his brother’s face. <br/>	“I need to go out, see London,” Sherlock had said, “I need to get to know it again.”<br/>	And just like that, he was gone. In a flash of words and a billowing coat. Just like always. Drama queen. <br/>	The urge to call John, to let him know, to warn him was overwhelming, but Mycroft forced himself to take a deep breath. He forced himself to calm down. This was all up to Sherlock, and he had to put all of his faith in John- faith that John wouldn’t break his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft had stood there, had seen how much pain his brother was in as Sherlock slipped on his coat and asked his questions, stated his demands. John was of course the main topic, something Mycroft had seen coming, had anticipated and dreaded it.

 

“You know,” Sherlock accused, a pointed look on his face. “You always know.”

 

“Ah, yes and every Friday we meet for fish and chips,” Mycroft spewed, his tone dripping entirely with sarcasm.

 

He wanted to lie, was tempted to lie. Sherlock was so demanding, declaring Mycroft always knew. Of course Mycroft always knew. But he wasn’t about to admit that. Not this time. But he couldn’t lie either. Not to Sherlock. Not to his little brother. Not after all he had gone through.

 

“You might not be welcome, Sherlock,” Mycroft told him. He wanted to warn his younger brother. Things might not be as they once were.

 

Sherlock missed it all, though. Mycroft’s internal struggle. The truth covered by his attitude. He was too proud, too excited to care, to see, to observe. All he wanted was to see John again. Mycroft understood that want.

 

“I need to go out, see London,” Sherlock replied, haughty as ever since he had gotten what he needed from Mycroft. “I need to get to know it again.”

 

And he was gone.

 

Just like that. In a quick slew of words and a billowing coat, just like always.

 

Drama Queen.

 

Still, Mycroft felt the deep urge to call John, to ready him, warn him, really. This would be overwhelming for him, Mycroft knew. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t warn John, and he couldn’t protect Sherlock.

 

**

 

Sherlock stood proud, his head high, as he stared out at the skyline of London. He stood where that two year adventure from hell began; the one that carried him away from John in a body bag. His heart had been heavy then, torn, breaking, forever a hollow space filled by his lie.

 

Things were different now.

 

He wasn’t leaving John this time, would never leave him like that again. He promised himself that. It would be a promise he made to John as well.

 

Then things would go back to normal. Solve crimes. Blog. Just the two of them against the rest of the world. The way it was always meant to be. The way it should’ve always been.

 

One, maybe two things would have to change though. That mustache. That would have to go. It aged John. It wasn’t how Sherlock remembered him, wasn’t how he saw John in times of no hope. In times when he was being tortured, beaten, starved. In those times, Sherlock saw John as he had been before.

 

Pale sandy hair. Laugh lines around his lips and eyes. Standing as tall as he could for a short man, built up with military authority and confidence. Strong. Laughing- or rather giggling. Wearing those jumpers.

 

It was for those deep blue eyes that Sherlock did what he had to do to survive.

 

For John.

 

 

 

It was a diner, a small one. Perfect for something close and personal. For something meaningful.

 

Sherlock’s heart raced a million miles a minute, but he was finally ready. After preparing all day. He finally knew what he had to say. It was all planned out, word for word, what Sherlock wanted to say, how he would apologize, how he would say “I love you” to the man he had considered his only friend.

 

He could do this.

 

His body hurt. His thoughts were jumbled. Panic rising. Stomach twisting and chest tightening.

 

But he could do this.

 

In the back of the restaurant, Sherlock spotted John. So much the same, so much different. Sandy blonde hair streaked with grey. Frown lines. Weight loss. That blasted mustache.

 

Sherlock heart fluttered. What if John didn’t just accept him back into his life? What if John didn’t accept him _at all_ anymore? What if Mycroft had been right? John had moved on with his life, and Sherlock might not be welcome.

 

The smile on his face faded and he could feel it.

 

 

He could do this.

 

He had to do this, waited two years for it. He just needed a new approach. Something funny.

 

The plan formed as he went. A man’s tie, women’s eyeliner, a menu. He took them all, drawing on a fake mustache, adding someone’s glasses, using the menu to cover the rest of his face.

 

John was alone. This would be easy.

 

Yet…

 

John was alone. This would be difficult.

 

This broke his heart. John was alone because of him. Because of Sherlock. Sherlock had left him, had lied to him. He left John to lonely nights and too quiet mornings. Breakfast alone. Dinner alone. Alone. So, so alone.

 

Guilt swooped in and slowed his step. A fast moving waiter with fish and chips nearly knocked into him. It blinded his line of sight to John.

 

Someone was with him now. Someone making him laugh and smile, causing those deep blue eyes to light up. Someone one not Sherlock. Watching John’s pupils dilate was like watching a terrible ending to a great movie. At least that’s how John would’ve described it. For Sherlock, it was closer to watching all the sentiment of his hopes, and even his dreams, burn up before his eyes. It was his heart burning in his chest.

 

It felt like Moriarty had won.

 

Sherlock wanted to crumple. The broken pieces of his body, mind, heart felt like they were sliding out of place.

 

John laughed.

 

The sound carried to Sherlock and he looked up. His eyes found John. It hurt to see that smile aimed at someone else. It was selfish and Sherlock knew it. He knew he should’ve been happy that John could still smile, but no. No. NO.

 

John was supposed to smile at him like that. He was supposed to love Sherlock. Not Mycroft.

 

What?

 

Mycroft?

 

Sherlock remembered. Looked. Saw. Observed.

 

 _Fish and chips every Friday._ That umbrella. Those damn pointed shoes. Stupid tan suit. It was wrong. All of it. It as just so wrong.

 

Sherlock felt himself curling up in the inside, cringing away from the sight. His mind called to John, begged him to turn his head and look Sherlock’s way. He pleaded with the universe to allow him to unsee it all, to unmake this moment. To rid him of a reality where his brother could do this to him, one where he hadn’t had to lie to John.

 

Mycroft’s phone rang.

 

Date over.

 

Mycroft never ignored a phone call. Sherlock knew it. There was nothing more important than whatever problem sit on the other side of the phone line. Whatever problem it was, Mycroft was sure to rush off to. He would leave John behind, and Sherlock could claim his rightful place, he could pretend he hadn’t seen all of this.

 

John’s bright blue eyes dulled with disappointment at the sound of Mycroft’s phone, but he gave Sherlock’s brother a bemused smile anyways. Pretended he was going to be okay with being ignored and left behind. John wasn’t foolish, he knew what was going to happen. Mycroft was going to pick up that phone and leave him. Yes. That’s what was going to happen.

 

Mycroft didn’t pick up the phone. Didn’t answer it. He pressed ignore instead. Without even looking at it.

 

A wide smile consumed John’s face, surprise brightening his entire expression.

 

Whatever problem was on the other end of the phone, Mycroft ignored. For John. Mycroft cared about John.. They cared about each other. They had moved on and together.

 

Sherlock took in a shuttering breath that made his chest rattle with the shattered pieces of his heart and let his shoulders slump. His body hurt worse then before. He could feel it weighing him down, compressing him together as if trying to pulverize him. He felt like such a fool.

 

Mycroft had been so obvious.

 

Turning around, Sherlock slipped out of the diner without making a scene. He waited outside in the chilling weather against the wall of the building, watched as the sky grew darker and how the streets cleared of people. He abandoned his disguise, discarding carelessly the glasses and bowtie as he had been discarded. He wiped away his mustache, disappointed and hollow, his head bent low.

 

Sherlock waited, not knowing how much longer John and Mycroft were going to be, but still knowing that even if it were a few minutes, it would be the longest wait of his life. Longer, even, then the two years he spent away.

 

**

 

John laughed as he stood up, a container of leftovers in his hands, “You know, sometimes I swear, I don’t know what to do with you.” He shook his head, eyes looking up to Mycroft, who was standing now too. Umbrella in hand. Ready to give John a ride home even though John didn’t live far and didn’t mind walking. Mycroft, who had been thoughtful and insistent since… Sherlock.

 

Mycroft who had been hiding something from the second he walked into the diner. Since his spontaneous vacation that he refused to be anything but vague about it.

 

John could see it.

 

“Are you alright, Mycroft?” John asked, prompting him to be honest, his eyes burning into Mycroft’s.

 

They paid and made their way out. Mycroft left a larger than normal tip. John pretended not to notice, but his lips twitched to give him away.

 

“Exceptional,” Mycroft lied with practiced technique and a polite smile. There was something different about it, the way it’s been different for weeks. There was something more snide about it now. Him and Sherlock were much too alike sometimes. Especially in their expressions. In how they lied. The last time a Holmes brother lied to John, it broke him.

 

He wasn’t going to let it happen again.

 

“Listen,” John began as he pushed his way through the doors of the diner. The cold air washed over him and he braced himself against the cold. “If there’s something you’re not telling me-”

 

“There will always be something,” a voice said, cutting John off. It was low and familiar and haunting.

 

The world spun. This wasn’t real. No, this couldn’t possibly be real. That voice. Those words. They washed over him like a dream. This was no dream. This was a nightmare. Those words. That voice. They weren’t real. Couldn’t be. They were just haunting him. Haunting John. Reminding him of everything he had cared so much about. Of what he lost. Of what left him alone.

 

John turned, heart unable to keep up and sputtering.

 

There he was.

 

Sherlock Holmes.

 

Face screwed up in pain, he wobbled, crumpling, reality falling apart around him. “How?” John croaked, his mind rattling. So many questions. But they all wove together. He couldn’t read them, couldn’t string them together, couldn’t fathom where to begin even if he could. “How?” It was the only way to begin all of them, all his questions. It was all he knew.

 

How did Sherlock do it? How did he survive? John had watched him drop, the memory invading his mind like an unwanted house guest. How could he not contact John? Tell him what was happening? How could Sherlock simply let John just continue believing he was dead? How could he even believe Sherlock was dead? John. How could John be so foolish? How could he not have dug further? How could he simply believe his own eyes when he had felt so much doubt? Sherlock hadn’t. Sherlock always pushed for more evidence, pushed until there was no room for doubt.

 

John had doubt. Had been unable to believe what Sherlock did. But he hadn’t pushed. Had let himself get left behind. Had allowed himself not to believe.

 

“It was all just a trick,” Sherlock said from his place against the wall, his voice unchanging. Like he was bored and disappointed. Didn’t matter that those words dragged John down towards his darkest memory, his own personal hell. “Just a magic trick.”

 

A flash of rage shot through John. It was like a fire consuming a parched forest, destroying everything in its path, every dry leaf, fragile twig, turning to ash every tree. The fresh anguish in his heart only fueled the flames. He didn’t realize he was moving until his knuckles collided with Sherlock’s face, those damn cheekbones. Sharp as ever.

 

“You let me think you were dead!” John howled as he lunged forward. He tried to wrap his hands around Sherlock’s neck. Not to kill him. No. No, it was so Sherlock could understand how life felt without Sherlock, without his best friend. How suffocating it had been, how difficult it was to breathe in such a miserable life. How hard it was to survive without his air supply.

 

Not to hear the violin at three in the morning.

 

Not to hear the clinking of beakers as Sherlock experimented in the kitchen.

 

Not to see Sherlock on the case, to see him break through everyone’s walls and the lies they were built up with.

 

Not to see Sherlock smile.

 

How could Sherlock think John could survive without any of that? How could Sherlock knowingly cut him off of life support?

 

“John, no!” Mycroft cried out, quickly wrapping his arms around John and hoisting him up.

 

His equilibrium was thrown off. His body readjusted. His anger redirected.

 

“You knew!” John hollered, pointing a finger at Mycroft, eyes narrowed and demanding the truth as harshly as his voice. “You knew didn’t you? Who else knew?”

 

“Molly,” Sherlock replied, disgruntled still as he lifted himself from the ground, refusing Mycroft’s help. After dusting himself off, he added as an after thought, “And about twenty-five other people.”

 

“OH! Oh, that’s just great,” John growled, his chest heaving. He could feel his heart ready to explode. It couldn’t take much more. He couldn’t take much more. “Mycroft, Molly, and about twenty-five other tramps.”

 

Sherlock tried to reach out to him.

 

Mycroft tried to reach out to him.

 

“Don’t touch me,” he said, putting up both of his hands as a barrier. “Either of you.” John shot his glare at both brother’s. “Don’t touch me. Don’t follow me. Don’t call me. Don’t even think about me.” He took a ragged breath. He was suffocating again. It was too much to bear. “I’m going home.”

 

John backed away, watching both brothers for a moment. His mind raced, so many images flashing about in his mind, so many thoughts screaming over it all. It was all too loud, to distracting. He needed to think. He needed to get away, reconfigure his fragmented heart.

 

He refused to look Mycroft in the eye as he turned away, refused to see Sherlock. He walked away without a word. Walked as fast as his legs would carry him, his hands balled into fists as he went.

 

**

 

Sherlock paced his flat, paced 221 B Baker street like he used to, like it was home. But it wasn’t home. John wasn’t there, wasn’t talking to him. He wasn’t talking to Mycroft either, which Sherlock had so desperately wanted to take as a small victory, but he couldn’t. There was only guilt. Fear. Hopelessness.

 

John just left him. Torturing him. It was brutal, no mercy. Leaving him alone with no one to argue with but himself.

 

He shouldn’t have lied to John in the first place.

 

But it had been for John’s safety.

 

John would’ve wanted to know anyways. He always wants to know.

 

But John’s alive because he didn’t know.

 

John had been miserable though, suffered the entire time like Sherlock had.

 

Sherlock’s phone buzzed and never before had he prayed, but in that moment he had. Prayed to see John’s name staring back at him, bright, a call wanting to be answered, a person waiting to be spoken to.

 

But it wasn’t John.

 

It was Mycroft.

 

“Have you spoken with him?” Mycroft asked, his tone as lonely as Sherlock felt.

 

The answer is simple, but so impossible to get out. No. One word. Easy to say. But refused to form on Sherlock’s lips.

 

Of course Sherlock hadn’t heard from John. Why would John contact Sherlock first? Sherlock wasn’t the one John was dating. Sherlock wasn’t the one John loved. It was a cruel question to ask. It broke Sherlock a little more.

 

He hung up without responding, a frown on his face as his screen darkened.

 

Bitterness bubbled in his gut and he tired to push away all of his thoughts about John and Mycroft. He ignored his thoughts about the unfair things in life, of how alone his days were since he’d been back.

 

Tears might not have ever been Sherlock’s thing, not real tears at least, but he still knew hurt. He knew what it was, what it did to people, how it was caused. Sherlock still knew how it felt. Hurt. He recognized it as it cracked all of his barriers and rusted away his heart. It left him open. Raw and wounded.

 

This was ridiculous.

 

Sherlock shook his head.

 

This was not how things were supposed to be damn it.

 

John was overreacting and it was high time they spoke. Time they acted like adults. Face to face. Man to man. They needed to talk without fists flying or childish games. No lies. Just the truth. It was time to come clean about everything.

 

He grabbed his coat from the couch and fled. Outside in the cold, the sidewalk was more crowded than usual. But Sherlock stayed strong, pushed up his collar and tried to hail a cab. He tried and tried and tried.

 

Perhaps it was a sign. Perhaps the universe telling him not to go to John, but to wait for John to come to him. If he ever did go to Sherlock.

 

It was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

 

Sherlock walked to John’s instead.

 

For years, John had always been brave for Sherlock, protecting him. Now it was Sherlock’s turn to be brave for John. The real kind of bravery. The kind that doesn’t involve taking the easy way out. The kind that didn’t involve pretending or lying. The kind that made one face reality and the truth and all the consequences that came with it.

 

 

 

When he reached John’s flat, he slowed down. He studied it. It was a place John had chosen it live here. It spoke of what John’s life had become, of what John himself had become.

 

It was smaller than 221B, Sherlock observed, his judgment based off window spacing- it was minimal. Took a remedial job at a surgery, then. One that doesn’t pay too much. One that was far from Baker Street. One far away from anything that would remind John of Sherlock.

 

It took a great deal of effort, but Sherlock managed to detach the roots that kept him planted where he stood and made his way to the front door John’s building. His eyes found buzzer 21 labeled ‘Watson’. Coincidence, Sherlock was sure, but his heart still flinched.

 

He pressed the button.

 

Time ticked by slowly.

 

He pressed the button again.

 

 

Sherlock was done waiting. He buzzed another number and lied. It was easy, he had done it before. Will probably do it again. A little breaking and entering never hurt anyone when it was a matter this important. And without question, Sherlock was let in.

 

He charged towards the twenty-first flat on the second floor, charged towards an open door.

 

His heart slowed as he paused outside the door, the detective in him going to work immediately. Sherlock felt his sense rising to the occasion taking in every detail, every smell and sight, tagging them, cataloguing them. Deducing them.

 

The door was open. Kicked open judging by the boot print on the door. There was fist sized hole in the wall. Not John’s. Another hole. Someone’s back. Also not John’s. A mirror lay shattered on the ground, a piece of an old jumper caught on a shard. Definitely John’s.

 

John never went down without a fight.

 

John had to be okay.

 

John was probably sitting in the living room, reading the papers, waiting for the police to show up. Calm and collected, he would be sitting there, waiting to explain what happened and maybe even why. Safe, he would be sitting there, waiting.

 

Sherlock stepped in a little further. “John,” he called, his voice a low rumble, an attempt to not sound alarmed. But he flat beyond remained silent. “John!” he tried again, his heart starting up, pounding fast. His palms began to sweat. His pulse pounded in his ears.

 

He searched the flat. It wasn’t hard. Sherlock had been right. It was a small place. One bedroom, bathroom attached. Kitchen opening up to the living room. Clean and neat. Just like John.

 

He found no one.

 

With shaking fingers, Sherlock dug his phone from his pocket, fumble as he tried to dial for Mycroft. His throat dried and his world continued to tilt.

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said by way of greeting after barely one ring. There was a pause, a moment where Sherlock could practically hear Mycroft deducing him. The sound of his panicked breathing, the fact that it was a call and not a text. “What’s going on?” his voice dropped, became more serious. Sherlock could feel the concern through the receiver, even though the voice on the other end was still steady. After all these years, Mycroft thought he could fool Sherlock. But he couldn’t. They were the same, the two of them.

 

It was the reason they couldn’t stand each other.

 

It was the reason they helped each other.

 

“John’s gone,” Sherlock replied, straight to the point, avoiding dramatic flare. “He’s been kidnapped. He’s hurt.” He eyed blood on the carpet, swallowed. His throat felt thick with fear and guilt.

 

“What? How-” but Mycroft’s wavering voice was cut off as the phone dropped from Sherlock’s hands. Someone grabbed him from behind. He hadn’t closed the door behind him. He’d left his back vulnerable.

 

His head smacked against the wall, smacked against an old photo of John and Sherlock in the earlier time of their relationship. A time when they both smiled.

 

Pain rippled through Sherlock’s head and he slid to the ground, the wall as his guide. The world spun and blurred. There was a black clad figure in the doorway, but there was no face. It was too fuzzy. His eyelids were too heavy and his gaze dropped.

 

There was a needle in his arm.

 

Mycroft’s muffled voice called his name from somewhere far way.

 

“John,” Sherlock called with a huff of air, a breath before the darkness swooped in on him. Before he was carried away from it all.

 

**

 

Mycroft stood from his chair, calling for Anthea as he did. John was gone. Sherlock was gone. His mind turned, heart thundered. Time was ticking too fast and he was moving too slow.

 

Anthea came around the corner looking more alert than usual, her phone down at her side and not in her face. Even she knew there was something wrong, could tell by the tone of Mycroft’s voice. Urgent. Panicked. On the verge of losing control and grasping desperately at the seams of sanity.

 

“Who was last monitoring Sherlock and John?” he demanded. “I need to know where they are, what they saw. I need to debrief them now!”

 

On the double, Anthea jumped into action. Her fingers dialed away. She contacted everyone who knew anything. She forwarded it all to Mycroft’s mobile as he headed out. Two of his men followed him. He hated field work, getting dirty or personally involved. He hated noise. He hated people. But he loved Sherlock. His little brother. And he loved John, too. The good doctor.

 

**

 

Sherlock’s head felt heavy, his limbs weighted down, almost like he was drifted under water. Everything was shrouded in shadows and blurred. His head was warm, fuzzy. There was a figure moving beside him, hunched over, sitting. A voice was mumbling, familiar, but Sherlock couldn’t make out what he was saying. For a moment, he didn’t care what he was saying. It was John.

 

John was alive and that’s what mattered.

 

“John?” Sherlock croaked, eyes half shut. He tried to lift his head, to see John’s face more clearly. But John was quick, attention snapping straight to Sherlock, moving to his knees. His hands roamed over Sherlock, his face, chest, arms. Checking vitals.

 

“God, Sherlock,” relief oozed from John, from his voice, but it was quickly followed by his doctor-ly concern. “How’s your head? Are you getting enough air?”

 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Sherlock replied, his words slow forming, but he managed not to slur. John’s face sharpened as Sherlock’s vision cleared. There were circles under his eyes. Bruises on his face. Cuts. His lip was bleeding. “Are you alright? What happened to you?” Sherlock struggled to sit up, fumbled. John was there, cradling him, holding Sherlock’s head in his lap.

 

“Stop trying to move,” John demanded, his voice wobbling. “I’m fine. I’ve been through worse. Remember? Soldier?”

 

There was blood on his shirt, a stiffness in how he sat. He was in pain. A lot of it. And he was trying to hide it. Trying to hide the fact that he had been beaten, tortured. Why? Why would John try to hide this?

 

Sherlock pushed himself out of John’s warm embrace. He tried to adjust himself, to shake away the heaviness. There was a clanking sound. Metal sliding against metal.

 

A chain shackled his ankle to John’s, held them both to the ground.

 

“What do they want?” Sherlock asked, his eyes forcing their way to meet John’s. Forcing himself to wonder what dragged John into a violent mess.

 

John ran his hands over his face and groaned. Guilt pulled his lips into a frown. “I’m not sure entirely. I only caught bits of what they were saying. Something about Mycroft. I think.”

 

Sherlock looked around, his eyes trying to take everything in, his mind trying to work everything out. They were in a padded cell, dimly lit by a yellowing light above them both. No windows. Only one door. They were underground on the outskirts of London. Just outside any populated city, outside any sound barriers their screams could break through. Outside any of Mycroft’s security cameras and away from his spies. Away from help.

 

**

 

John couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe Sherlock was right there, right by his side. It was as if things hadn’t changed. As if the last two years didn’t happen. Like Sherlock hadn’t left John behind. It was as though Sherlock was the same Sherlock that never failed to appear when John needed him most.

 

His Sherlock was still alive, still unchanged. Still there for him. Giving him another miracle.

 

“You know,” John began casually, “the day I buried you, I asked you for one thing, Sherlock.” He remembered that dreary day as if it where yesterday. He had been cold, feeling alone and lost. No one at the funeral seemed to understand what John was going through, what was happening in his head, his heart. They hadn’t even tried. They kept their distance. They had always kept their distance and he had let him. Then, he had Sherlock and he hadn’t needed anyone else. He hadn’t needed anyone but Sherlock.

 

John still needed Sherlock.

 

“I know,” Sherlock said in that low voice of his, and for a moment, John thought he had spoken out loud. “I heard you.”

 

Swallowing, John forced out, “I asked you to not be dead.” Sherlock knew. Sherlock had been there. Even without being seen, Sherlock had been there for John at his most vulnerable points.

 

Sherlock scoffed, “Be careful what you wish for.” His tone was laced with bitterness and a rattling noise much to close to the sound of a broken heart. It stirred things in John.

 

“Sherlock Holmes,” the name rolled off of John’s tongue, fierce and sharp. “You-” he started and nearly laughed, “you are the biggest pain in my arse, have been since the moment I met you. That’s what you’ve been. A pain in my arse and the best and wisest man I have ever met. Sherlock, you are my best friend,” he grew serious now, eyes pulling Sherlock full attention. “I am perfectly happy that you are alive, so don’t think for one second that I could ever regret my words or wishes.” Without Sherlock, John had been so purposeless. So lifeless. For Sherlock to so much as think John regretted their meeting, their life together, their second chance was offensive. Wrong. Almost silly.

 

Sherlock blinked, expression and body frozen in shock. It was like watching an error screen appear. Only funnier.

 

“Wh-” Sherlock had started and stopped that same fragmented word over and over as though his mind wasn’t functioning anymore. His expression never faltered or moved. It was becoming a bit disturbing.

 

“Sherlock, that’s getting a bit creepy now,” John said, concerned he broke his best friend. Was he even breathing anymore? “Sherlock?”

 

“So,” Sherlock began, his face finally moving, his voice light, confused as his mind worked out some unseen problem. “What your saying is… that… I’m… your-” he broke off, the last piece of the puzzle in his head not making sense, “best friend?”

 

Sherlock hadn’t known.

 

The realization was like taking a hit to the chest. John felt like the wind and words had been knocked right out of him. After all those days and nights. After all of those cases and close calls. After just bloody everything, how could Sherlock not know?

 

Sherlock who knew everything.

 

How could the great Sherlock Holmes not know that simple John Watson was in love with him? How could he just leap off of a building for someone he thought didn’t care enough to consider him a best friend?

 

John stared at Sherlock.

 

Maybe that was why Sherlock never said anything about any plan. Because he thought John didn’t care. About him or if he lived. If he just disappeared out of John’s life.

 

“Yes- yes of course you are,” John confirmed, giving Sherlock an earnest look, promising himself that if they survived this, he would spend the rest of his life making it up to Sherlock. Unless Sherlock was being a prat. Words would be exchanged then. Lots of them too because they would have the time. They would be together.

 

The door to their cell opened before Sherlock could respond. John could feel a spark of fear flare up and shoot through his nerves, but he was quick to tromp it back down. He refused to let his fear show and stood taller. Staring at the men who walked in, John memorized them, their every detail, the way they looked, how they sounded.

 

First one in was bald, a tattoo on the top of his head and going all the way back, dark lettering that John couldn’t make out. His eyes were set deep into his skull, but not far enough back to cover the malice that danced in the dark irises. He wore a sneer on his face that sent shivers over John’s spine.

 

Not even in war had he seen an expression like that.

 

He was tall- well, taller than John, not Sherlock. He was at eye level with Sherlock, dressed in all black. Bulkier build though, making him wider then Sherlock, taking up more space in the small room and making it feel more crowded.

 

The other two weren’t dressed much differently than the first, dressed in black. Bullet proof vests. Utility belts for knives. Holsters for guns.

 

Had they expected to be ambushed while kidnapping John?

 

To the left stood one with short hair, slicked back with too much product. His eyes were dark, wicked, matching his smile. He wasn’t much taller than John, probably had a bit more weight on  him than John. The other, the one on the right, seemed normal enough looking. Blond hair tussled, bright eyes focused. He wasn’t smiling or sneering. He look… bored.

 

“So,” began their bald, caveman-like captor as he looked over Sherlock, “You’re Sherlock Holmes.”

 

They were like vultures waiting for their prey to give up and die, but they kept their distance, refusing to circle them. The tallest one still bore bruises on his face from where John hit him, cuts on his knuckles from where his fist went though John’s wall.

 

John knew the man hadn’t forgotten their last close encounter then. Probably knew John wanted to dish out a bit of revenge for the wall and mirror, things that were certainly going to be fun to fix and replace once this was over.

 

“I am,” Sherlock replied, his tone confident as ever, unfazed. “And just like I’m not the one you’re looking for, you’re not the one I’m looking to speak with.”

 

John shot him a confused glance. It was quick enough that no one else seemed to notice, but Sherlock did, shot back with _the face_. That face that promised they both knew what was going on. The one John had no clue why it even existed because Sherlock always seemed to be on his own page, one where he could see all of the invisible threads that connected all the facts, wrapping them up in a neat little conclusion that only Sherlock could understand.

 

And apparently the last two years did absolutely nothing to diminish that expression or that attitude of his.  

 

Sherlock’s eyes swept over the blonde man to the right, “But you are,” he continued.

 

The blonde man smiled, wiping away that bored face and warping it into something hideous. “You don’t disappoint, even if you are the wrong brother.”  


Sherlock smiled, cocky and proud because some things really never do change. “And what is it you need from him if I may ask?”  


“Oh, you may,” the blonde man replied, still smiling, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

 

“Then what is it you’re looking to get from us?” Sherlock rephrased. “What could you possibly get from John that you couldn’t get from me?”

 

The men shifted and John felt the need to step in front of Sherlock as they all shared a look. It was dark, twisted. It was triumphant. Victorious. And John didn’t like it. Nothing had happened yet, but they were smiling as though they had already won their prize.

 

The blonde man spoke again, his tone light, casual as if speaking to old friends. “Two hostages are far better than one. Two hostages that Mr. Holmes cares deeply for. His heart and his blood. With only one, we can only promise to kill. With two, we can kill. With two people he cares equally for, we can kill one to prove more than promise to break him. And when we break him, he will give us what he wants to save the other.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John let out a heavy sigh and stood up, eyes so full of resolve. He swallowed, eyes darkening. “Sherlock,” he said, his voice eerily steady and too calm, “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock felt his throat run dry as he swallowed his panic. Where the hell was Mycroft when he needed his brother?

 

“But see,” the blonde man continued, still calm, “we won’t be doing the killing. Blood isn’t easy to wash out and my shoes alone are more expensive than what the two of you are wearing. So, the two of you can decide who will be sent to Mycroft in a body bag.”

 

John scoffed.

 

Sherlock’s muscles tightened.

 

“If you don’t pick, I’ll chose who gets shot,” The blonde man’s eyes went from Sherlock to John and back again. “I’m sure you won’t like who I pick.”

 

Sherlock knew it was a rouse, knew his words were really aimed at both of them. It was simple psychology. But it didn’t matter. It still felt like his words were for Sherlock. It still felt like they were going to kill John. “You have twenty minutes.”

 

The blonde man reached behind his back and produced a gun. Sherlock eyed it wearily, wondered if he was fast enough to snatch it and shoot before he could be stopped.

 

“There’s only one bullet in here,” Blondie continued, amused as he watched Sherlock. “One bullet. One body. Shoot wisely because otherwise it’ll be a slow death. Painful too, I’m sure.” He tossed the gun. “Twenty minutes.”

 

John and Sherlock dived for the gun at the same time, the chain pulling at their ankles, as Blondie and his men turned to leave. With military expertise, John was able to snatch up the gun and aim it perfectly, but the door shut. Sherlock listened as John mumbled a curse. Or three.

 

He looked over to John, the air settling around them along with something resembling calm. John didn’t anything, just stared at the locked door before his eyes finally dropped to the gun in his hand. He stared at it like it was heavy, like it was annoying and distasteful.

 

Sherlock wanted to reach out to him. It was a strange feeling. Nearly funny, the want and need to comfort someone. It was something he hadn’t really understood entirely before. And he didn’t want to get used to it either. He didn’t want John to have to be comforted. John should always feel comfortable. Happy.

 

There was only one way to ensure that John was happy.

 

 

Mycroft would give anything to save John. Sherlock knew. Sherlock knew because he felt the same way. That’s what love made someone want to do. Love made you want to sacrifice and protect and do whatever it took to keep the one you love alive.

 

John swallowed and let out a deep breath. His eyes filled with resolve. “Sherlock,” he said, his voice steady and calm. Too calm. Sherlock didn’t like it. Didn’t trust it. It was deceiving. “I’m sorry.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened. He saw the gun, saw John’s finger on the trigger as the barrel raised to John’s own head. But Sherlock was faster, much more desperate to keep John alive then himself. He managed to knock the gun away off to the side.

 

“What the hell, Sherlock,” John snapped, but he was too surprised to be really angry.

 

“No,” Sherlock growled, stepping closer to John. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to die. You have to live and be happy and have all the things you want, damn it.”

 

“And what about you, Sherlock?” John demanded, his tone strong, eyes determined in a way Sherlock hadn’t seen before. “Do you think you don’t deserve those things? You are fantastic and brilliant and the world needs you. Your brother needs you. And I need you. I need you to live. I just got you back and I’m not about to let you die!”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

 

John raised an eyebrow.

 

Why was John challenging him on this? Why was he so damned stubborn? Bloody drama queen.

 

There was a twitch of movement. It was the only indication that John was going to jump before he actually moved. Sherlock dove after him and they rolled. There was a struggle, the gun between them.

  
Sherlock’s heart raced. His mind searched for a way to end this before something happened. But his mind couldn’t come up with anything that might stop John, anything that might shock him or give him a reason to pause. John was stubborn, his morals and loyalty like big bolder. Strong and unwavering no matter what came its way.

 

But there was one thing.

 

The words would shock even Sherlock, had shocked Sherlock the first time he thought of them, came upon them. He had spent hours rehearsing them in his mind. He could tell John the truth, let him know why Sherlock had done all of this in the first place.

 

“I’m in love with you, John!” Sherlock shouted and the sound of it was too loud for his own ears. Too harsh. He flinched with his entire body at the same time John paused.

 

There was a bang.

 

Neither of them moved.

 

Sherlock was beneath John on the floor, could still feel the gun, still hear the echo of the shot ringing in his ears. It dulled out every sound. Dulled out everything really. The shock of it.

 

Warmth pooled at his chest, but John smiled.

 

“No,” Sherlock whispered. Or maybe he screamed. He couldn’t tell. “Please, no.” the words felt choked, difficult to form. His throat felt too thick to let any words through.

 

**  


At first, there was no pain. All John could feel is Sherlock’s words.

 

Sherlock was in love with him.

 

When had that happened? Why hadn’t he said anything? Why hadn’t John noticed? All the possibilities that could’ve been washed over John. What could’ve been if Sherlock hadn’t left… if John weren’t leaving.

 

It had taken John so much time to acknowledge he had feelings for Sherlock. Had taken even longer to accept after Sherlock died. Well, faked his death. He wished he had said something before all of that. He wished he had been brave enough to even consider saying something.

 

It was John’s only regret.

 

The pain had ripped through him, right up his stomach and through his back. It was a familiar pain, one he wished he hadn’t needed to feel again, but one he didn’t mind having to feel again so long as Sherlock lived. Mycroft would give anything to save his younger brother, and now, Mycroft would have the chance to.

 

John tried to slide off of Sherlock. He knew he was bleeding and he didn’t want to bleed all over Sherlock. Dying in front of him was cruel enough. Bleeding on him was just rude.

 

But Sherlock wouldn’t let John go.

 

Sherlock removed the gun from between them, tossing it aside. John winced with the movement, gritted his teeth. He could bare it, pretend it wasn’t rippling through his body like a horrific tidal wave that electrocuted every nerve in his body and enveloped his muscles. Sherlock didn’t need to see it.

 

“It’ll be okay,” John ground out, his voice hoarse. It was a dead give away to his pain, to his blood loss. He was frightened that he was already slurring his words as his head began to spin. “You’ll be okay.”

 

“You don’t understand,” Sherlock replied, pulling John close, holding him in his lap.

 

Sherlock was sitting.

 

John was in his lap.

 

When had that happened? When the world started spinning? He couldn’t remember. Couldn’t focus on remembering. All he cared about focusing on now was Sherlock. The warmth Sherlock gave him as a chill started to creep over his bones.

 

**

 

“It should’ve been me!” Sherlock croaked, pulling John closer, tighter into his lap. He brushed his hands through the ash blonde hair, tears pooling in his eyes- real tears, the kind that came from broken walls, devastated hearts, and shattered souls. “I was the one you should’ve been in love with. I was the one who should’ve made you laugh and smile and kept you warm. I was the one who should’ve been protecting you, sticking by your side, keeping you happy and alive and healthy. It should be me on the ground right now, John. It should be me. I love you. I love you, John Watson.”

 

The words spilled from him, going free as fast as they could after having spent so much time locked away with everything else, all of his sentiment. The heart was never supposed to rule the head. Emotions weren’t supposed to rule over logic. Ever. But they were.

 

Sherlock was pure, raw emotion.

 

“John,” Sherlock said his name again. He repeated it over and over. Whispering it, cherishing it, holding it as closely and as tightly as he held John.

 

**

 

“Sherlock,” John breathed out, but Sherlock didn’t hear him. “Sherlock!” he was so tired. His body felt heavier and heavier. John was struggling to keep his eyes open.

 

It was light, but it was all John could managed as he raised his hand to grip Sherlock’s arm. And it was enough. Sherlock’s attention was his. Those eyes, glistening. That face covered in wet streaks. Sherlock was his. Always had been.

 

John smiled, but as a doctor, he knew his time was slipping away. “I wish…” he began, but there were too many words and he didn’t know where to begin. “I wish we…” he tried again. “Sherlock, I...”

 

**

 

“You what?!” Sherlock cried, desperate for the end of that sentence. Desperate for John’s next word, next breath.

 

But there was none.

 

He watched as that glorious light left John’s deep blue eyes. He felt as John’s last breath left his body, could feel him become nothing but solid weight. Just muscle and bone and blood.

 

He didn’t want to believe it.

 

“John,” Sherlock said. “John!” his voice grew louder. He was screaming. “JOHN!” There were more tears. More real, painful tears, spilling from the shattered dam that held his heart. “Please wake up! Please!” he begged uselessly, hopelessly into the shoulder of the limp body he continued to clutch and protect, desperate to feel an intake of breath.  

 

There was movement around him, voices, that he was vaguely aware of through the haze of the agony ripping through his body. Someone touched him. He flinched, lashed out, and turned away. Sherlock pulled John closer, barely able to breathe anymore. His body felt so destroyed, his mind burnt out. Everything in him begged for mercy, to be killed off. It was too much, like everything in him was being twisted, pulled, crushed from head to toe.

 

He was ruined.

 

**

 

Mycroft stood there on wobbly legs, his heart ceasing its violent thrashing. He felt like the wind had been knocked out of him, the ground pulled from his feet. Reality ripped to shreds.

 

Two minutes.

 

That’s all it was.

 

Two minutes late.

 

He had kept his distance from them both, trying to respect boundaries, but he should’ve been trying to resolve their trivial feud. He should’ve prevented this. He could’ve. Instead, Mycroft failed them.

 

So he continued to keep his distance. Even now.

 

Mycroft stayed away from John’s hollow body and Sherlock’s broken one. But he watched. He saw as his little brother’s soul poured out of him, breaking over John and disappearing into the body.

 

Just two minutes. That’s all it took.

 

“They’ve been taken into custody,” someone said as they slithered up to his ear. “They’re being transported as we speak.” Mycroft nodded and he was gone. Without even seeing his face. Mycroft couldn’t have cared to look. His eyes stayed on Sherlock.

 

Mycroft wasn’t sure how long he had stayed there. It was long after Sherlock was half carried away, an empty look on his face. Long after John was wrapped up in a body bag. Long after the blood was cleaned and the mess was handled. But Mycroft still stood there. He still stared at where John had been, where Sherlock had held them. Where they both died. Where Mycroft wished he’d been sooner.

 

“It should’ve been me,” Mycroft could hear his brother’s words echoing in his mind like a toxic lullaby. Sherlock had looked directly at Mycroft as he said it, those intellectual eyes of his dead.

 

Mycroft could’ve sworn his brother had tried today it should’ve been him. And it should’ve. In his heart, he knew it. Mycroft knew he should’ve been the one there. Not Sherlock. Not John. Him. This had been his mess. His problem. And they dealt with it.

 

Because they cared about him and he cared about them.

 

Two damned minutes.

 

**

 

The sun was shining. Not a cloud in the sky. It was bright and radiating and flowers where blooming. It was sickening. The world wasn’t nearly sad enough in Sherlock’s mind.

 

There should’ve been a storm raging. Rain pounding into the ground. Black and grey skies. Trees knocked over. The world should’ve been ravaged, ruined like he was. Torn in the way he was. Broken. Shattered. Destroyed. Like he was. Why wasn’t the world? The rest of the people before him?

 

They didn’t care. Not the way he had. None of Them. Yet all of them were crowding around the casket as it was lowered into the ground. They watched. They waited. They wanted it to be over. John’s friends. His sister. His co-workers.

 

Sherlock watched and Sherlock waited. He didn’t want it to be over. He wanted it to stop. To rewind.

 

The tears streaming down his cheeks quietly felt sticky, wrong. He wanted to wipe them away, to make them disappear. They were real. This was real. He hated real. Real was seeing the blood staining John’s jumper and Sherlock’s coat. Real was hearing the gun go off. Real was not hearing the end of John’s sentence. Real was never knowing.

 

Real was painful.

 

Sherlock left the funeral early with Mycroft watching him. He didn’t care if it was rude or if his brother knew what was happening next. He didn’t care about any of it. And how could he? The only thing, only person Sherlock had truly cared for was being dropped into a hole in the ground. So why not leave early and find another dark and festering hole for himself to crawl into?

 

**

 

The funeral had passed and Mycroft hadn’t heard from Sherlock. He was sitting as his desk, arguing whether or not he should try calling again. He had dialed Sherlock’s phone more than once, even tried Mrs. Hudson to go check on his brother. But Sherlock was never home anymore.

 

Not really.

 

When he was, according to Mrs. Hudson, he slept. He’d stopped crying though, stopped throwing things, having fits of rage. He stopped fighting. All he did was sleep. Though, once, he told Mycroft to bugger off.

 

Not likely to happen in either of their lifetimes.

 

But Mycroft felt he was running low on options. Sherlock refused to see or speak to him. Wouldn’t talk to Mrs. Hudson. Certainly never any one of Mycroft’s men. There were few people in Sherlock’s little circle of tolerated people.

 

It’s why John had always been such a necessity. Dealing with Sherlock was nearly impossible for anyone. Even Sherlock’s own brother. But John, even when frustrated or angry always found away to stay close to Sherlock, never setting off any of the wrong buttons. John had always known what to do in the end, always figured it out.

 

Mycroft was helpless.

 

Still, he dug out his phone and dialed an old number. He waited, his nerves wrecked. This was his last option.

 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking,” greeted the familiar, somber voice.

 

“Gregory,” Mycroft said, “I need a favor.” He needed a miracle. His work was suffering because of this, because all that was on his mind was Sherlock, his guilt. Damn his guilt. It should’ve been him. Two minutes.

 

Gregory let out a low sigh, “He won’t take my calls, my cases. I’ve tried. I keep trying.”

 

“Then it’s time for a drugs bust,” his brother would end up in rehab far out in the country, slipped away, the drugs taken into custody.

 

“Meet you in twenty,” Gregory replied and his tone was somehow more tragic then it was when he answered.

 

Twenty minutes until he bore witness to his brother’s ruin. Twenty minutes until his own ruin. Twenty minutes until he felt himself shatter into nothing because he knew what he was going to find. He knew and it terrified him. He saw twice now his brother lost in a drug haze. Neither time had been pretty. Both had been close calls.

 

Not again.

 

**

 

The flat was the same as it was the last time Greg saw it. Nothing had changed. At least not on the outside. It was disturbing to say the least. Greg almost wished it shared on the outside the despair it contained on the inside. Wished, so he could prepare himself, so Mycroft could prepare himself.

 

He had known this was going to be bad, knew it the second Mycroft had called him. Mycroft never really called him, and usually when it did, it was interesting. This time, it was desperation.

 

Mycroft was already there, waiting outside when Greg arrived. There were circles in his eyes, wrinkles in his suit, an absent umbrella.

 

Together, they went upstairs. Just the two of them. Greg knew this was a private matter for Mycroft, knew it would only hurt more if other’s saw his usually so well put together persona rumpled.

 

It was dark, the entire flat. They stepped on already smashed bulbs as they made their way to Sherlock’s room. The curtains were drawn shut.

 

Mycroft moved faster, stepping around the tossed apartment like he’d done it dozens of times. It both hurt and relieved Greg. Perhaps, if it had been this bad before, Sherlock was still savable. Perhaps, they could bring him back, pull him from the darkness, literally, and place him back in the light.

 

Greg’s heart pounded in Mycroft’s silence. He could barely hear Mrs. Hudson downstairs, barely hear the glass crunching beneath their feet as they found Sherlock’s door. It was closed, had been since the day of John’s funeral. He wasn’t sure he was ready for what lay on the other side, but he put on his policemen’s face anyways.

 

There was more darkness on the other side. Dust floating in the air along with a pungent smell. It was ripped through Greg’s nose, made him want to take a step back, but he pushed forwards instead, chasing the silhouette of Mycroft.

 

“Sherlock!” Mycroft demanded, but Greg could hear the shivering in his voice.

 

With a quick flip of his wrist, Mycroft yanked the blankets away to unveil the lump that was Sherlock curled up in his sweat soaked sheets. He wasn’t moving, blinking, breathing.

 

Greg wasn’t sure he was either.

 

His eyes scanned over the needles, the drugs. Sherlock wasn’t even trying to hide it. Pills, powders, and plants.

 

“Oh my,” Mrs. Hudson’s voice gasp from the doorway. Greg turned quickly to see her clutching her chest, panic written in the lines on her face. Quickly, Greg moved to usher her out of the room, but one step, and he heard a noise.

 

Sherlock groaned.

 

Mycroft whimpered with relief.

 

Greg finally breathed.

 

“We have to get him to the hospital now!” Mycroft said, pulling out his phone. A quick text before he put it away.

 

**

 

Gregory was stronger, pulled Sherlock into his arms and placing a blanket over his exposed chest.

 

“We can save him,” Mycroft announced behind him as he slipped passed Mrs. Hudson. “Doctors are already waiting. The traffic will be in our favor. Just let me drive.”

 

They had to save him. Had to. Mycroft refused to lose his brother. He refused to be two minutes late for the second time. So he helped Gregory get Sherlock into the car, and crawled behind the wheel.

 

The vehicle came to life and Mycroft peeled off. He swerved passed cars _and_ managed not to hit anyone. Secretly, Mycroft had wanted to be a racecar driver. He’d never told anyone, figured they’d never understand. Especially after the whole pirate fiasco with Sherlock. But now, Mycroft wanted to tell him. Was desperate to share that bit of knowledge with Sherlock.

 

Mycroft wanted to share with Sherlock the years he poured into learning everything he could about cars, how fast each different kind went, how each kind worked. What worked best. What drove better. He had poured years into driving in abandoned areas, perfecting new techniques from drifting to drag racing. Mycroft had worked so hard at it and worked so hard at keeping it a secret.

 

He wanted to share all of it with Sherlock.

 

He would share it with Sherlock.

 

**

 

The lines of the world were blurred. Sounds were muffled. His body felt heavy and weightless at the same time. Sherlock was barely aware that he’d been lifted into a car and was currently resting in someone’s lap. He thought he heard Mycroft, but he saw grey.

 

His head spun.

 

Sherlock didn’t want to think about his brother or the man with the grey hair. Gavin? Graham? No. He wanted to think about John. The only man that mattered. The short one with the silly blog. The one in the jumpers with blond hair. John Watson. John Hamish Watson. Military doctor. War hero. The guy who never finished his last sentence.

 

_I wish… I wish we… Sherlock, I…_

Those words, that sentence haunted him. It played over and over and over. A horrible mantra on a broken record. Skipping, full of static. Hell.

 

What did John wish? What did he wish about them? Sherlock, he what? He wanted to know. Sherlock wanted to know with concrete evidence what John was going to say, instead of filling his mind with all the possibilities.

 

Even the drugs could not silence the possibilities.

 

Not for lack of trying, though.

 

_It’ll be okay… you’ll be okay._

 

WRONG!

 

 _All wrong, John. How could you be so wrong?_ He could never be okay. Not without John. Sherlock wasn’t sure how or even when it happened, but John had very much become an essential part of who Sherlock was and without the part of Sherlock that was John, Sherlock would never be alright.

 

There was no recalibration to figure out who he was without John. There was no Sherlock without John. Before John, Sherlock hadn’t been Sherlock. He’d been ‘The Freak’. He’d been a ‘Fake’. He had been a no body. He’d been alone.

 

John changed that.

 

John made him care. John had opened him up, his eyes and his heart. John moved in and stayed there. Without John, there was nothing left. Not in this life.

 

But at least now, Sherlock had reason to believe in the next. Whether it was an afterlife like heaven or be it they’re stuck in some plain as ghosts, or whether it was reincarnation. Sherlock had a reason to believe it in.

 

He clung to that belief as his heart slowed and breath became harder to draw in. His body felt colder, even with what he realized was a blanket around him. There was a bright light- the sun- blinding him. The word ‘Hospital’ cleared for a brief moment.

 

Saint Bart’s Hospital.

 

Sherlock almost laughed, but he didn’t have the energy for that. He needed to save what energy he had left. But he couldn’t stop a thought from wiggling its way into his hazy mind.

 

Like he was supposed to, Sherlock was going to die at St. Bart’s. Maybe not on the sidewalk from a suicide, but a drug overdoes on the inside.

 

Moriarty won.

 

It stung and for a second, he was angry. But he smiled. Sherlock wished he had the time to say he was sorry, to say goodbye to everyone. Mrs. Hudson because she was a kind landlady to put up with him and his experiments and making him tea in the morning. His brother because annoying as he was, at least Mycroft understood the way his mind worked and always encouraged him to do better. Greg because he finally remembered the man’s name- remembered John saying it- and because he wasn’t a half bad inspector.

 

But Sherlock didn’t have the time for it. He was going to go find John.

 

**

 

Two minutes.

 

Two funerals.

 

Two months.

 

Mycroft’s heart was in shambles. The sun was shining bright. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t have to. The world didn’t work like a story book where weather reflected the soul, the heart, the whatever sentimental nonsense that people liked to believe.

 

Yet he wished it would.

 

He could feel the glue failing at the seams of his mind, of his sanity. He stood there beneath the beaming sun and beautiful sky, staring down at the coffin that belonged to his brother. Watched as they lowered him beside John, because beside John is where Sherlock belonged.

 

It would’ve been wrong to burry him anywhere else.

 

That’s sentiment for you.

 

The Holmes had a perfectly good, well set up site for their family, but Mycroft diverged for his brother. Diverged because it was what Sherlock would’ve wanted and it was the least he could’ve done for the man he was always late for. Late in bringing home. Late in saving.

 

Two minutes.

 

Mycroft wished he could cry.

 

He wished he could call for help. Scream. But who would understand. Who would even care? Mycroft felt sick with regret and guilt. It plagued him. Haunted him in his dreams. His nightmares.

 

There was so much he could have and should have done. For both of them. He could’ve not lied to John. He could’ve just helped Sherlock instead of just encouraging the mental prowess that could’ve been gained. It had been a dangerous situation. What older brother does that?

 

“Mycroft,” the voice was soft, yet it demanded his attention, pulled him out of his grief for a moment of distraction. He looked up, away from Sherlock’s coffin, to see Gregory.

 

The Detective Inspector looked rough, as though he’s had as many sleepless nights as Mycroft, as though he’s dropped four- no, five pounds from not eating. His suit was rumpled, but his hair was well enough put together, an attempt to look proper in the midst of something chaotic.

 

“Gregory,” Mycroft replied. It was all he could really manage.

 

“Listen, I know most people say sorry for your loss,” he began and then shuffled around on his feet. “And I am. I’m sorry. Sherlock isn’t- wasn’t easy to deal with always, but he was good. He was a good man and great at what he did.”

 

Mycroft quirked a smile as his eyes slid to the tombstone. He saw his brother’s face. “He wanted to be a pirate.” He didn’t know why he said it. Didn’t care. But a fiasco or not, it had been a good memory. Seeing Sherlock smile so proudly as he stood next to Redbeard to announce his future as a career criminal of the seven seas and five oceans.

 

Gregory looked at him for a moment, confused, clearly and asked, “A pirate?” he struggled with a smile of his own. “I think that would’ve suited him well if he had chosen it.” He paused, looking over to Sherlock’s grave as people started dropping roses in the hole. “Racing would’ve suited you, how you were in that car.”

 

“I wanted to,” Mycroft confessed because he couldn’t tell anyone else. “I never got to tell him that.” _Because all lives end_. “I wanted too.” _But all hearts are broken_. “Guess I never thought to when we were younger.” _Since caring is not an advantage_.

 

Sharing was emotional. Emotional was sentimental. Why he was sharing now, he wasn’t sure anymore. The words just kept coming.

 

“Listen,” he said, his voice hoarse now, “if you ever need help at the yard, don’t hesitate to call. It’s the least I can do.” He owed him so much more than that. The poor man had helped plan both funerals because Sherlock couldn’t handle John’s and Mycroft struggled with Sherlock’s.

 

A crooked smile screwed up Gregory’s face. “Be careful what you offer. I might take you up on that. The yard’s been a mess. I’m… slipping to say the least. I might even be replaced.”

 

Mycroft would make sure that didn’t happen. As Sherlock loved to say, Mycroft practically was the British government. One word of recommendation and Gregory would be receiving a raise. Slipping or not, Mycroft was still important, necessary. His word still held ground.

 

“Well, you have my number,” Mycroft said, prying his eyes away from Sherlock’s tombstone to take on a full view of Gregory’s face. He tried to smile.

 

“And you have mine,” Gregory replied with a certain kind of understanding in his voice that Mycroft didn’t really understand. A certain kind of understanding that he had never felt from anyone, but heard before from John when speaking to Sherlock. The kind that said, we may not have the same brain, but we have the same heart.

 

Mycroft gave him a soft, tired smile, “Thank you.” And he meant it.


End file.
